


Without a Morning

by mrhiddles



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Anxiety Attacks, BAMF Arthur, Cigarettes, Depression, Drug Addiction, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Protective Eames, Slow Burn, also anxious Arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9610589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrhiddles/pseuds/mrhiddles
Summary: Arthur has just moved to Hastings, England following a tragedy. Eames takes an interest in the new kid. Eames helps him heal.(English schooling/sixth form AU)





	1. Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> "What is life, when wanting love? Night without a morning; love's the cloudless summer sun, nature gay adorning."  
> -Robert Burton
> 
> \--
> 
> I've never been to Hastings. I am sorry if anything during this story is out of left field. Please let me know! This will also be my first long form Arthur/Eames fic and while I'm working on another one simultaneously, this one will finish faster. I hope you enjoy!

It happens again like it usually does.

He’s running. These nights it’s a blur, perhaps because he knows what’s coming.

The flailing of angry arms, tense fingers, the snap-hatch-pop of bursting rubber. He’s sweating, heart pounding. His skin feels too tight and when the night shirt he’s wearing blooms red, he doesn’t need to look down to see the piece of metal jutting from his side. Old news.

Ahead they lay broken, bones going in the wrong directions. Like some sick twist on an old comic book he’d read as a kid.

 _You still_ are _a kid_ , his mind whispers, too loud in the haze of his dream-fuddled mind.

It’s brighter here, but slower. He hates it. Hates he can recognize and catalog every detail. He’s learned the dream within two nights of having it, and now it’s been six months since the accident.

The dream always ends with him falling to the pavement, down through blood-soaked cement, rearing back up to meet waves. Endless, dark waves.

Somewhere a light sweeps across the bay, an undefeatable beam in the dark, and he knows it’s time to wake up.

\--

Hastings isn’t exactly what Arthur thought it would be. It’s smaller than he expected. But the air is crisp and smells like sea salt, tinged with the sweet stirring of brews that drift up to his bedroom window from next door. The pub is lively at night and at first, he’d resented it. Thought it would keep him up, something he hated. But it’s a soft buzz of drunken laughter and wanton tales told to old friends and new lovers and well…now he feels he’s being pathetically overdramatic. Romantic. Bordering on just this side of fake, and he promised to avoid that. That’s not what she wanted at all.

Arthur closes his journal. Realizes it’s been a month since he transplanted to Hastings, England, and that his cousin—who was gracious enough to take him in—lives next to a fucking bar.

He shoves his laptop in its case, shoulders his bag and heads downstairs. His cousin won’t be back for another two months, at worst. A week or two at best. There’s been a lot of _worst_ going around as far as he can tell.

The kitchen counter is dirty. Arthur makes a note to clean it when class is over.

His stomach is fluttery, his hands shaky. Today will be his first day of English schooling, and even he’s not sure what to expect.

Arthur’s phone vibrates and he sees it’s a text from Ariadne. At least she’s stuck in this town same as him.

 _Ready for your big day!!?_ reads her eager typing.

 _You mean ready to be exceedingly American together? Sure._ He hits send and heads out the door, too wired.

Arthur’s hands shake the entire way to class. He has thirty-two minutes.

\--

The walk isn’t long. In three minutes he’ll be there, with twelve leftover. He doesn’t feel like talking to anyone and his hands still vibrate in his pockets so Arthur leans against a brick wall flecked with years old paint and lights a cigarette. He thinks of his mother.

Arthur hates it here.

It’s not the cityscape. Hastings isn’t ugly, not in the least. With its neat scattering of brightly colored buildings and winding streets leading to the docks. The beach is vivid, and the water clear. Ships pass lazily in the English channel, heading to Norway, knowing there will be money in it.

It’s not the people. The people he’s seen so far have kept to themselves, or been friendly. But the town is boring. And if Arthur had had his choice of city in this deal, he’d have gone for London. At least there were things to _do_ there. He can’t really imagine what Hastings has for way of entertainment.

And Arthur needs entertainment. Needs to keep distracted. He takes one last deep drag of his cigarette, flicks it to the ground and heels it to quiet ash. His hands are stable, he’s fine, he’s fine, he’s going to be _fine_ —

In the distance a bell chimes, once, twice, and after a moment he heads to school.

\--

He doesn’t see Ariadne anywhere, so he texts her. He makes his way to his first class.

_Where are you?_

He watches students file into the room, they don’t look like he expected. He smells pot as someone passes him by, sees the clock ticking away on the wall, feels his phone vibrate a response.

_Had to hurry to grab seat, sorry!! will find you at lunch! <3_

One of the last students to come in taps his knuckle on Arthur’s desk on his way to take the empty seat just behind him. He listens as the boy drops heavily into the seat, slaps his supplies on the desk, and the creak of a seat as he leans forward.

Arthur’s skin prickles as a lilting voice chimes to him, “And who do we have here, hm?”

Arthur turns and sees a boy with buzzed hair, full lips turned up in a smirk and smiling eyes. His shirt stretches tight across his folded arms and Arthur purses his lips as a response.

“New, yeah?” the kid tries again.

Arthur glances to their side, looks at the others going about their business. Everywhere he can hear accents and he thinks, _No that’s wrong, I’m the one with the accent now._

Arthur meets the boys eyes again and says, “Yeah.”

“And does Mr. New have a name?” His eyes are blue and sincere and Arthur swallows.

“Arthur,” he says.

There’s something in the kid’s eyes then and Arthur prepares himself for the questions to start. But all he gets is, “I’m Eames. Welcome to our quaint little township, Arthur.”

Arthur tries a smile, and Eames grins for it.

Then there’s a mass of shuffling and the talking stops and then Eames is leaning even closer than before. He smells like stale… _something_ , and sweat.

“Guess I’ll have to pick your brain later, then. Arthur.”

Eames sits fully in his seat and jerks his head toward the front of the room. The teacher has arrived and as Arthur turns in his seat, he thinks things might just be fine after all.

\--

At lunch, Arthur half expects Eames to round on him when he stands, mumbling something to himself under his breath. But as Eames walks smoothly past Arthur’s desk and out into the hall, he finds himself disappointed.

Ridiculous, Arthur tells himself.

He gathers his things and goes to find his friend.

The lunchroom is large, and the food is surprisingly healthy. But he’s still too jittery to trust his stomach with food just yet, so Arthur waits outside by a large tree. There are plenty of students here, some looking much older than the rest. His first class was like that, older than him.

Watching people hug each other and laugh together, he feels out of place.

“How was your first class?” comes a chipper voice just behind him.

The grin Arthur gives her is genuine, and they hug for a long time before Ariadne finally kisses his cheek and lets him go. She’s absolutely beaming.

They haven’t seen each other in almost a year, and he knows it’s mostly his fault.

“Not exactly as challenging as I’d thought this place would be, to be honest. I thought schools in the UK were supposed to blow ours out of the park.”

Ariadne huffs a laugh as they settle at the base of the tree. He watches as she pulls container after container of food out of her backpack.

“Well, not _our_ schools technically anymore, right?” She shoves one at him and he discovers macaroni salad inside. “Sorry, wrong one.” She takes it back and trades him one filled with fruit instead. “And aren’t you taking advanced architecture? I’ve been trying to get into that class all year, but they still have an endless list of requirements I need to complete.”

Arthur shrugs. “I don’t know, it seems pretty straightforward so far.”

Ariadne shakes her head as she starts in on her food. “You’re a creature on another plane of existence, you know that? Hard things are just a walk in the park for you.”

Arthur laughs lightly at that, not knowing really what to say. He notices the container shakes in his hands and so he sets it down, clasps his hands together instead. Tries to breathe.

She sees. She always does.

She grabs his hands and holds them tight. Her grip is warm and familiar and Arthur realizes how much he’s missed her in that moment.

“I’m sorry, Arthur. For everything.”

He nods. Swallows hard.

“You know, you come to me when you need to. I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night, I’m here. You know that, right?”

The nod he gives her is jerky at best. He lets out a shaky breath, closes his eyes and tilts his head slightly, counting to ten before opening them again.

“I—”

He’s cut off by a rolling call of his name. Eames.

Ariadne squeezes his hands once before letting go. She continues eating and watches as Eames bounds over. He smiles at Ariadne and offers her his hand. The way her lips quirk tells Arthur she’s amused.

“And who are you, peachy thing?”

The quirk is accompanied by a blush.

“I’m Ariadne,” she says at the same time Arthur says, “This is Ariadne.”

Arthur sighs and says, “This is Eames. He’s in the class too.”

“Oh, no way! Do I need to sacrifice a goat to get in?” She slumps against the tree and drops Eames’ hand in the process.

“Well it is sixth form. Took me till this term to make it in,” Eames tells her easily. He sits with them then and there’s just this… _way_ about him that Arthur doesn’t really know what to think of. He’s charming, and effortless. Young, with kind eyes.

“I have the grades, maybe they just don’t like me.” She laughs but Arthur knows it’s something that really bothers her. She’s used to being top of her class. And she’s been in England for almost three years. Arthur’s a new a transfer, and already has skipped two years of courses Ariadne still has to go through.

“You’ll make it yet, just try, try again,” their new friend tells her and Arthur wonders at just why this kid is so interested in them. In _him_.

He turns that clever gaze to Arthur and he feels lightheaded all of a sudden. “And I’ve noticed you’re both American. What brings you to cozy little Hastings?”

“My father’s a professor. He travels a lot and I, unfortunately, go with him,” Ariadne offers up easily.

Arthur wishes it was like that for him.

Eames is still looking at him.

“And what about you, Arthur?”

The way he says his name is—

“My cousin, he’s a fisherman. I’m only here until the end of the year.” The words are too hurried he thinks. Ariadne is looking at her food, but she’s not eating.

Eames nods, serious. “Fishing is dangerous business. Rob’s dad, uh, Fischer—his dad runs a lot of the fisheries ‘round Sussex.”

Arthur hums. Eames is still just staring at him and he’s wondering _why_ , is it that easy to—

Eames checks his phone then, clicks his tongue when he sees the time.

“Hey, wanted to ask, want to share the project for class? There’s only a few months left this term, and wanted to make a shining example out of what the others wish their work could be.” His smile then is lopsided and Arthur sees his teeth are slightly crooked.

“The final project?” Eames nods. “Uh, sure, I guess.”

“Grand! I’ll find you when classes let out.”

That was in another six hours. And Eames was already standing and shouldering his bag. Arthur stands and hands Eames his phone on impulse. Below them, Ariadne sniffs loudly and Arthur can practically hear what she’s thinking.

Eames’ brows raise high, but he takes the offered phone, drop calls his own number. When he hands Arthur back his phone, their fingers brush and Eames’ smile turns into something _other_.

“See you, then,” he says, and just like that he’s leaving.

Others have begun leaving the grassy lunch area. Fewer and fewer students remain, some are still chatting. Some are smoking some heady mix that wafts over to Arthur, makes his thoughts wander.

“Boy’s got it bad,” she says, mouth full of food.

Arthur shakes his head, playfully nudges Ariadne with his shoe.

“Shut up.”

She snorts and the tree shading them shudders with the wind.


	2. Distant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is lonely and Eames likes poetry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW SORRY I DIDN'T UPDATE life's been wicked busy friends. Two deaths in the family can upheave a schedule for sure.

Sometimes, it’s the light house. A jutting tower of grey rock surrounded by grassy boroughs. Sand rose to the knees there and he misses it, sometimes. He could still fall down and the landing would be soft. It would give nothing away. He’d be safe to stand back up again, unscathed.

Sometimes, it’s his mother’s smile, a small mercy.

Arthur wakes up, blinking slow. Feels like he hasn’t slept at all. His side hurts, and he knows he’ll feel the inches-long scar if he runs his fingers there so he resists the urge. Resists telling himself it’s only been six months and maybe that’s a good thing.

\--

It’s too early for class by two hours so he scrubs the house clean. It’s little more than a flat at best, and a gutted one at that. The wall is pocked with holes, the molding is cracked and flaking, the wood floors are bowed and in some places Arthur can see through underneath them. He’s wondered if Dom’s hidden anything, but then realizes it’s likely nothing useful.

Dom is a scrappy guy, always has been, and has never been one for keepsakes, save for the treasured few he keeps safe on his nightstand. Arthur wonders how he’s doing out on the open sea, wonders if he’s making any money, wonders if he’ll have to leave Hastings sooner than he thought.

His own room is impeccable, so he tends to Dom’s, the living room, the bathroom, and the kitchen. The patio is hinged on shaky bolts so he knows better than to test it by walking on it, let alone clean it. Dom’s room is covered in a fine layer of dust. He wipes everything down, throws Dom’s bedding into the wash, even fluffs his pillows. A frame is turned down on the nightstand. Arthur wants to know, wants to turn it over and be proved right, that it is who he thinks it is. But he refrains. Saves the questions he has for when his cousin returns.

It’s been an hour and the kitchen isn’t as bad as he first thought. The sink fills slow, and he lets his hand float as the water rises. He bends low, watches each bubble as it flicks up and pops out of existence. Arthur thinks of the lighthouse, what it might look like now, if it was any different, if the sand still felt the same on bare feet.

Arthur feels water on his chin and that’s when he realizes his hands are shaking, his heart is racing.

He’s having trouble breathing and he thinks _Ariadne,_ before grabbing his phone.

\--

Ariadne is in her pajamas when he reaches her house. She puts a finger to her lips and glances upwards past the doorway, past where Arthur can see. She motions for him to follow her inside and he does, gripping the hem of his sweater as he treads quietly behind her up the stairs to her room.

The walls are lined with pictures of her family. Her parents on a bench with toddler-Ari in between them. Ariadne’s middle school pictures from when they still lived in America. Then just pictures of her and her father. More solemn, less laughter, less Ariadne as they ascended.

Her door clicks shut behind them and she frowns. “Sorry, my dad’s still sleeping.”

Arthur doesn’t sit and she notices. Watches him like he’s a frightened animal, eyes wide. She reaches her arms out, touches his arms. He looks at the ground and counts in his head. He can feel her squeeze him once and then she’s guiding him to sit on her bed.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t stop _seeing_ them, Ariadne. I can’t sleep without seeing them, and the fucking water, I can’t—”

She shushes him, hands tight around his arms. She wraps her arms around him and he buries his head in her chest. He’s focusing on the after, the minutes beyond the incident, the day after, everything that came _after_. Because time doesn’t slow for anyone and that’s a mercy, the one he grasps to most when this happens.

His breath is shuttered and when she finally pulls him away, he sees her shirt is damp. His eyes ache.

“Come on,” she murmurs, “We have class soon.”

\--

The sun has risen and the sky is a fresh pink, warmed at the edges by burnt orange light. It’s cold out and the wind is picking up. Somewhere in the distance someone is honking their horn at other early morning commuters.

They’re going to be late. And Arthur minds, feeling like shit for making Ariadne late after making her have to change her shirt. She holds his hand until they’re out of her neighborhood and then he’s on his own, fingers itching for a cigarette.

“How are you doing?” she asks when they’re at the school’s entrance.

“Like I need a smoke,” he says, honest. He shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“Bad habit.” She frowns.

“I’ll quit eventually,” he tells her.

Ariadne rolls her eyes at him, moves to give him a hug. It’s gentle and he hates that she sees him like this, hates that it makes him feel better.

“I’ll see you at lunch, alright?”

Arthur nods, and reaches for his lighter when she’s just out of sight. Clicks the metal of it open and feels warmth on his fingers as he lights one of his last. He’ll have to get more after class.

He leans his head back and looks up at the sky, lets the smoke drift from his mouth without any encouragement. Holds his breath and waits for the moment he’ll have to breathe in. He wonders how long it will take.

The clouds move slow and he blinks.

His phone chimes and Arthur realizes he must have turned on the sound at some point in the midst of cleaning.

_Dawn’s light treating you well?_

It’s Eames and Arthur stares down at the message, not moving. He takes a final, deep drag on his cigarette and snuffs it out on the ground.

He doesn’t respond.

\--

Arthur is chided upon his entry into the class but he’s more concerned with Eames in the back, watching him every step to his seat. He’s eyeing him like he’s got a secret and it makes Arthur’s skin prick with cold. It makes him uneasy. And he’s only known him a few days at this point.

They break halfway through and it’s then that Arthur feels a sharp tap on his shoulder. He glances back and it’s Eames, jutting forth a folded note. He unfolds it and is surprised by what he sees.

_I murmur under moon and stars_   
_In brambly wildernesses;_   
_I linger by my shingly bars;_   
_I loiter round my cresses;_

“What the hell does this mean?” Arthur asks him, turning around.

Eames is watching him again, as if he never took his eyes away. He shrugs.

“I saw you across the courtyard there,” he says, pointing out the window, “You seemed to be wandering.”

“I was standing still,” Arthur says, slowly.

Eames smiles wide. “Doesn’t mean your mind was.”

Arthur doesn’t have an answer to that.

“Well?”

“I was trying not to think about anything,” Arthur finally says, the words rushing out. It’s too much.

Eames’ eyebrows raise, but Arthur holds his ground.

“After class, I want to show you something.”

“What?” Arthur asks him.

“Nothing terrible. You’ll like it I think.” And with that Eames stands, giving Arthur a firm pat on the shoulder as he walks by, leaving the room altogether.

Arthur just stares down at the note again, wondering why Eames would give him this. Tries to process the fact Eames enjoys poetry in the first place. The guy obviously spent time valuing his looks, he didn’t do any note taking as far as Arthur had seen, and he liked to linger on their breaks.

\--

The remainder of class is slow-going. Against his better judgement all he can focus on is what Eames wants to show him. It couldn’t possibly be anything sinister, but then, he still didn’t know the area too well. He could very well still end up as some dismembered murder victim in a grassy gorge and none would be the wiser to Eames being the culprit. The guy was charming and gave nothing away, and obviously had secrets.

Two more hours and finally, class was over. Arthur packs his things, waiting for what Eames would do.

“Come on then,” Eames says cheerily as everyone files out.

Arthur follows him out, dutifully dogging his heels as they weave through the outpouring of students. A few clasp hands with Eames as they left, a girl gives him a hug. Eames offers up a beaming smile to each and his hugs were close.

 _Must be warm_ , Arthur thinks dumbly. He frowns at himself and keeps walking.

When they’re clear of people, Eames gestures in the distance, towards the country.

“It’s a ways out, but a short enough ride. Still up for this?”

“Of course,” Arthur says, short. Eames nods and Arthur feels his stomach flip with nerves.

Arthur’s never been on a mini bus before but he knows he’ll likely never ride one again before he even steps foot on the one Eames locates. And Eames, he pays their way before Arthur can argue against it. He finds a window seat in the back and Eames sinks down beside him.

Arthur feels obligated now and he doesn’t like it. The nerves brew and stretch to his hands, he taps his fingers against his knees, watching as the streets go by out the window. Ignores how Eames sees and is obviously wanting to ask _why, what’s with you, you nervous freak—_

But Eames leans close and points past, out the window. Arthur can smell him and his hands go still.

“See, soon we’ll be out, away from all the nonsense of city life.”

“You’ve obviously never lived in an actual city before,” Arthur chides before he can help himself.

Eames huffs a laugh. “May be but trees always beat out buildings, if you ask me.”

The roads stretch farther and farther apart, the buildings and houses seem less and less and then it’s just the occasional shingle-roofed hobble and church.

It’s the church that Eames pulls to get off at.

It’s small, humble in every sense of the word. No concrete save for the street, and even that tapers off to dirt as the road stretches ahead. The fence is half rotted from what Arthur can see, and even the wooden cross on the forward most wall is a little crooked. It has a single bell rising above it, small with a thin rope sloping down off the roof to hang, ragged from rain and stained in the mud.

Arthur immediately steps in a wet patch of almost-mud when he gets off, and isn’t that just a perfect end to his day? Eames points onward, squinting against the late-afternoon light.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve brought me here to confess my sins,” Arthur says, grimacing.

“Ha! Not unless you have any you want to confess to?” He grins like a wolf and it has Arthur laughing despite himself. Quiet and awkwardly out of use, but it’s something and Eames smiles at him for it, that strange _something other_ in his eyes.

“It’s past the church, what I’m showing you. Never been one much for services. That was my mother’s forte.”

“Sounds so fun.”

Eames doesn’t respond to that and Arthur is curious why. Figures he must just be focused on walking and avoiding sopping sections of dirt as they make their way past the ruined fence.

There’s not much else behind the church. A small wooden shed with the door half off the hinges, a shovel inside, and some metal pots. The fence is completely down and half sunk under dirt in the far back and Eames sees the confusion on his face.

“Been shut down for ages. Not sure exactly when, but better this way.” He hums and then his voice turns chipper. “Just ahead now, over the hill.”

They make the final push and stop to breathe. Eames taps a knuckle soft against his forearm and nods his head forward, wordlessly asking for a confirmation.

“It’s something,” is all Arthur can manage.

The hill descends once more into a small valley. It begins with trees and a rocky half thought out wall that meanders inward. Flowers spread underfoot and defy the dirt, and Arthur wonders how this could be all the way out here and nowhere else.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, soft.

Eames looks at him, but he’s not smiling. He starts down the decline and Arthur follows.

They walk and walk and the trees grow thicker. They climb over and under fallen branches and trunks uprooted by storms. The stone wall winds through bush and flower and tree and is missing stones in large portions all along its length but it keeps on. The farther they walk, the more Arthur hears the gurgle of a stream and soon enough they come upon it, not even two feet wide at its center. Eames sits on the most solid-looking stretch of wall and Arthur stands some feet away.

“This is it.”

Arthur darts a look his way. It’s been at least an hour and a half and Eames is so nonchalant about the trek they just made.

“Is this where you write your sweet nothings to all the new boys?” Arthur jokes, very carefully watching the stream.

Eames is quiet for a long moment. “I didn’t write that. That snippet I handed you was by Tennyson. I come here for the quiet. It helps.”

He trails off and Arthur chooses that moment to sit beside him.

“Helps with what?”

Eames’ arms are lax in his lap, he nudges the dirt idly with one foot.

“Nature is our second. It stands with us, it grows with us, it’s a natural remedy to any unnatural ailment. I came here all the time as a kid, made for hours of imagining what was out there.”

“Like what?”

“If little fairies were set to sneak about one night or the next and trick me, or if some large beast was out to eat me at night and happened to like sleeping during the day. I’d wonder if this forest stretched all across the world, if the trees blocked out the sun. I’d wonder most about this wall, where it went.”

Eames is staring at his hands.

“I was wondering that myself.”

“I can tell you, if you like?”

“Sure.”

Eames meets Arthur’s eyes.

“It only goes on for another few miles or so, all of it. Then it’s back to housing and the like. The wall gets smaller and kids like to throw the stones around in the summer, so it gets smaller every year.”

“Easily fixed with some epoxy.”

That makes Eames laugh, from the gut and Arthur smiles for it. He likes being around Eames.

“It helps. That’s the point.”

“You never answered my question about what it helps with,” Arthur tells him.

“With the panic attacks.”

Arthur blinks, and sees Eames staring at him, watching him seriously. Arthur releases a huge breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. And then he’s standing, a step back already because who the _fuck_ did Eames think he was?

“I don’t have panic attacks,” he barks, knows it’s a mistake. “I need, I need to—”

Eames is standing now, reaching for him but Arthur slaps his hand away. Eames has an expression like he’s been burned. And Arthur knows it’s layered atop pity and he fucking hates pity.

“Arthur—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Arthur.” Eames says, voice loud and definite and final.

“I’m not some stupid animal you can just throw a diagnosis on and experiment with, alright? I’m not just some toy you can drag out to the woods and play with and throw accusations around—”

“I don’t think you’re a toy!” Eames rushes out. He has an unbelievable look on his face and he’s trying to reach for Arthur again but Arthur trips back and falls, hard. Eames tries to help him up and that’s even worse.

His heart is pounding so hard it feels like his ribs are too tight. Feels sweat cold on his neck and lower back and under his arms and knows Eames can probably see it and it’s so _fucking ridiculous_.

His hands are shaking, bad, and when he reaches in his pocket he realizes he forgot to buy cigarettes in lieu of this adventure.

Arthur slams a fist in the dirt and feels the burn of skin tearing as he pushes himself to standing, stumbling on the way up. He nearly knocks Eames off balance in the process.

“Stay away from me,” he tells Eames, not looking at him.

He’s rushing back the way they came. Hears Eames call for him. Hears him shout something but can’t make it out, his blood is rushing in his ears too loud to hear anything but his own heartbeat.

Arthur eventually finds his way back to the church, back to the road. He runs all the way back, realizes he’s out of shape and needs to run more, like he did in the states. Like he did before the accident.

It’s dark and his calves burn when he steps into his own home. When he locks the door he drops his bag, collapses to the floor. His knuckles are split and blood is dried muddy red all over his hand. When he strips down for a shower, his clothes smell like flowers and forest and _Eames_ and he hates it, hates all of it.

The water pools red and dirt-stained at his feet and he stares at the swirl of it until the water runs cold.

Only when he’s in bed does he check his phone.

A text from Ariadne, asking him how he’s doing.

A missed call from Eames, only after his six texts when unanswered.

_6:02PM           I only meant it’s a calming place, a good spot to get away from everyone and everything._

_6:07PM           Arthur I wasn’t attacking you. Why did you run off?_

_6:07PM           Do you even know where you’re going??_

_6:15PM           Please call me if you’re lost, I know these woods like no one else_

_6:18PM           God please don’t be lost. please call me_

_8:49PM           Are you okay?_

Arthur missed Eames’ call by ten minutes, and it’s just past eleven now.

He’s warm, clean, in bed and it’s a moment of weakness because he’s alone and Dom’s been gone for so long and his parents…his _parents_. And Eames is worried, even though he has no reason to be.

Arthur brings up the call icon, presses it so lightly he doubts he touched it at all.

It doesn’t even ring before he ends the call.

Arthur tosses his phone to the other side of his bed and focuses on the darkness, the quiet, the distant hum of slow voices from the bar next door.

He falls asleep.


	3. Eames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames is worried and Arthur is a dumbass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this twelve hours ago in one go, like I usually do. But I only realized right now at 12:13AM PST that it's been exactly one month since the last update.

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven_ …

“Eight.” Breathe. “Nine.” Breathe. “Ten.”

Arthur holds his breath on the last count, holds it long enough his eyes go wet at the corners. His lungs burn. His chest hurts, heartbeat loud in his ears.

When he breathes out, he sits up in bed. His room is still dark, and peering out his window he sees the sun has yet to rise. It’s too quiet, lacking the steady beat of drunk voices from the neighboring bar.

Only when he touches bare feet to the hardwood beneath him does he hear the almost silent scuffling of tiny feet. Then a distinct chatter and he knows it’s a mouse. Using his phone’s light it doesn’t take long to find the small animal. It’s bundled itself in the farthest corner by his bedroom door, fear bright in its dark eyes. When the mouse realizes Arthur is approaching, the little thing races up the wall, falling with a light thud on the floor only to do it again and again.

Arthur feels heavy, moves slow. He pulls his shirt over his head and quickly drops it on the mouse to keep it where it is. When he crouches his knees pop. The mouse is chittering to itself, bursts of confused, half-panicked noises. He lowers his hand to where the body of the mouse undulates and grabs it, fast.

He moves the fabric until a little face pops out at him. A little heart beats hard and too fast against his thumb and he feels the fear running through the creature’s body. He hums, watches it. Doesn’t really know what to do with it now.

He walks to the living room, too aware of the tiny paws battling his fingers for freedom. The frantic gasps of terrified mouse-speech. He still feels heavy.

At the front door, he slowly unlocks it and pulls it open. It’s cold out, and no one is awake at this hour that means to do anything decent. Arthur looks at the neighboring windows and sees some curtains half opened, forgotten in someone’s haste to sleep or have sex or was too drunk to care. He wonders what they look like, the people living all around him.

The smell of smoke is in the air, tobacco.

Arthur looks back down at the life in his hands. Thinks, _I could snap your neck with two fingers_. Thinks, _Why did I think that?_

Crouching low, his feet nearly numb on the chilly stone entryway, Arthur lowers the panicking bundle to the ground and lets the creature go. It dashes off, glad to be rid of him.

“Sorry,” Arthur whispers, to no one.

\--

Arthur wakes again to his leg vibrating. Sometime in the night he must have moved so that his phone was pressed against his bare leg. First he sees the time; 7:38AM, then he sees who it is. Arthur reaches for it and answers quickly.

“I’m fine,” he tells her right off the bat. He never wants to worry his only friend. Being that she is his only friend.

Ariadne huffs on the other line. “You’re a goddamn dumbass you know that? You’ve never been to the woods out here, you could have gotten lost.”

Arthur nods, then realizes how silly that is. “I know. I’m fine, promise. How did you even know about that?”

There’s too long of a pause and Arthur grows suspicious. “Eames and I traded numbers a few days ago. He was worried. He _is_ worried.”

“Why would he be worried about me?” Eames is a stranger to Arthur, just as much as Arthur is a stranger to Eames. There’s no real reason for a stranger to be worried about _him_ of all people. He’s observed Eames to be a charismatic and friendly guy but when it comes to actually talking with another human, he’s got no tact, he’s cagey and—and…

The sound she makes at that is high pitched and hard to listen to. “You really are a dumbass. He thought he got the new kid killed, for one. Two, you need to realize you aren’t this, this hard-to-like-asshole that you think you are. And three, he’s completely…uh, well. You need to talk to him. Let him talk to you. He feels awful.”

“It’s hardly been a week since we met,” Arthur tries, a final attempt. At what, he doesn’t really know. He hates not knowing, and he’s been doing a lot of that in the last six months. “I just feel like shit all the time. I feel like you’re my only friend, Ari. Dom isn’t back yet. I feel like all of this was a mistake.”

“You’re being too economic with your feelings, Arthur,” she says, her voice careful. “Would it be so terrible to let yourself know other people. Let them know you? Maybe feel something other than crippling anxiety and sadness?”

“You’re the asshole.” He rolls his wrist on his bare knee, feels the bones move, swallows hard. “He said I have panic attacks, Ariadne.”

“You do, you idiot.” She sighs. “I love you, you know that. We’re the kind of people that can go years without talking and we’d still be best friends. I _know_ that in my heart, in my gut. You know the gut is the most important decider of factors, right?” He hums at that. Her voice is quieter now, “Usually when people point something like that out, it means they know what it looks like. He may know what it feels like. I don’t know. But I know he was choking up on the phone with me today and I know you need to talk to him. He needs to hear your voice, so he’ll know he hasn’t killed you in the wild forests of little old Hastings.”

Arthur remembers the expression on Eames’ face when he was looking at the old church. He’d been staring right through it.

“Should I call him now?”

Ariadne makes another strange sound, but Arthur recognizes the tone. “What did you do?” he asks her.

“You ever do something stupid, and you know it was stupid, but you couldn’t help yourself?”

Arthur is about to reply when he hears a dampened thud coming from the front door.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

“You trust me?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Then trust me. Talk to him. He said he’d stop by before class.”

There’s a second thud from the front door, this time clearly more of a knock.

“I don’t think he understands what knocking is. He’s coming at it more like a small Godzilla.”

Her laughter is bright and needed, more than he realized. “You’re stalling,” she tells him.

“I know.”

“He’s a good guy, Arthur. Good luck.”

Arthur only stands after he hears the line go dead. His gut is woozy, and the only thing he trusts right now besides his friend is that he needs to eat, badly.

\--

The third knock is harder, and Arthur can’t help a quirk of a smile at it. He’s sure to train his features back to normal nonchalance before he opens the door. Then he realizes he’s in only his boxers and a thin shirt.

Eames is reasonably well put together. He’s wearing a myriad of warm greys except for a bright orange scarf with a flamingo print. Arthur’s staring at it when he realizes Eames is shifting from foot to foot. He’s nervous. When Arthur looks back to his face, he realizes Eames’ bright eyes are mottled and bloodshot, he looks tired.

His full lips twitch, mouth trying for words once, then twice. He grunts to himself and remains quiet.

“I have panic attacks. I’m a goddamn dumbass, asshole,” Arthur tells him.

Ariadne wasn’t wrong.

Eames’ eyes go wide and he lets out a shaky rush of air.

“I count to ten when they happen. Usually it works. Sometimes I tap my fingers, I fidget a lot. I wake up and my eyes are wet, sometimes. My hands shake a lot. I run when I feel cornered.” He doesn’t know why he’s telling Eames this. He just holds Eames’ startled blue eyes and keeps going, the words pouring out of him. At his sides, the joints of his fingers feel swollen, too tight, hard to bend. “I hate Hastings. I hate that my cousin is still gone. I hate being the only American here besides Ariadne, and I know some of the others laugh at me in class when I talk. I feel like I’m drowning. I shouldn’t have run away like that.”

Eames shifts again, one hand raising just enough for Arthur to see out of his peripheral vision.

“And you, you’ve been kind to me. I don’t know why. I have no fucking idea why, if it’s a joke or something worse. I didn’t know what to do when you brought me out there. I thought I could start over here, that I could hide all of _this_. I saw you watching me tap my fingers on the bus, I didn’t think you’d _see_. It’s only been a week.”

Eames makes a noise, trapped somewhere in his throat and Arthur finds himself pulled into a hug. Eames’ arms wrap around his shoulders, his back. He feels Eames’ nose pressed tight against where his neck meets his shoulder. Every breath is too loud and Arthur feels too exposed but Eames just keeps holding him. Arthur’s hands settle lightly on the spread of Eames’ wool-covered back. He smells like mango on top of some brand of cologne and Arthur dares himself to inhale. Arthur feels warm.

“You smell like mango,” he says.

“New shampoo,” Eames tells him, voice just shy of wobbly. “You’re a fan, yeah? Don’t know if I like it yet.” He follows it with a laugh and it’s half-hearted, unfocused. His fingers grip tighter for a moment and he lets out a deep breath that heats all along Arthur’s neck.

“It’s okay.” That prompts a more genuine laugh from Eames and Arthur enjoys the sound.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to the boy who’s holding him so firmly. His chest goes tight and he feels like he needs to count in his head but holds back.

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Eames says, incredulous, pulling away. Arthur sees his eyes are wet. “I’m bloody sorry. I was being a prick, calling you out like that. You didn’t do anything wrong, Arthur.”

Eames’ eyes are so sincere, Arthur has a hard time meeting them this time. He’s never had someone look at him like this before.

“I did. I should have at least texted you I was okay.”

Eames shakes his head. “I saw you called me for a moment. I was too late picking up. I didn’t want to make more of a fool of myself than I already had. I just needed to know to, ah, see you.” He runs one hand over his head, fingers dragging through his short cut. He does it again. Arthur notices he has a short scar on his right temple. “I was a bit of a mess this morning towards your friend. She told me where to find you.”

At the sheepish smile offered to him, Arthur nods dumbly. “She called. Did you sleep?”

Eames shakes his head, no. “I needed to make sure.”

 _Why_ is the question hovering on his tongue, but something tells him that’s the wrong thing to ask right now. Instead, he motions for Eames to come inside and he does.

Arthur flicks on the living room light. “If you want, there’s coffee and toast. I still need to eat and change, if you want to walk together to class?”

Eames nods, hums shortly, and runs a hand through his hair again. Then goes to rummage through the fridge.

Arthur walks just around the hall corner, watching Eames from the muted darkness there. Eames is here, in his kitchen, looking for something to eat. He raps his knuckles on the door as he analyzes what to have. He starts pulling out things to cook and Arthur wonders what the hell he’s doing. But they don’t have much time, so Arthur retreats to his room and finds a clean change of clothes.

\--

Arthur comes back out after fifteen minutes in jeans and a sweater, taking too long because he couldn’t stop thinking of Eames in his kitchen, cooking.

He returns to eggs, bacon, pan-roasted tomatoes, toast that barely pops up thanks to Dom’s half-wrecked toaster and—

“Coffee’s still brewing. I knew you were American, but I expected kippers at least, your cousin being a fisherman like he is. And no sausage, terrible,” Eames chides.

Arthur just stares at him. “What’s a kipper?”

Eames balks. “Not terrible, ungodly’s what it is.” He smiles when Arthur’s lips twitch up at the corners. “I’ll make you a proper English breakfast sometime.”

“I didn’t expect you to be such a chef, Eames,” Arthur says, smirking.

“Like you said, it’s been a week, hasn’t it? There’s lots you’ve yet to learn about me.” He says it cheekily, around a mouthful of eggs and toast, but somewhere small it stings.

“Like what?” Arthur asks, pushing the feeling down and grabbing up a fork. They sit at the counter, frayed leather stools faintly rocking from use.

“I’m nineteen.” At Arthur’s face, he continues. “I had to repeat a term a few years back because my mum passed.”

Arthur swallows his food down hard. Eames shrugs. “She was a horror. No loss, really.”

“Why?” It’s not the real _why_ he wants to ask but his throat has gone dry and he wants more than anything to know what happened.

Eames pokes his last egg with his fork, swirling the yoke around. “Highly religious woman. A true believer in miracles and in vengeance, when it suited her. She believed it was her right to deliver righteous justice upon her child should he waver from his God-given path in life. Which was greatly and often, what with the influx of cocaine one encounters growing up in London, and the clubs, _ooh_.” His grin turns dark. “Obviously, I wasn’t the son she was expecting to bring into the world. I was the profligate, the dissolute monster that was her worst nightmare. Irony really is a bitch.” He huffs a laugh and folds his fingers together. “She died of cancer when I was fifteen. I got sober and repeated that term and here I am. I go to the woods to think some days.”

“That church we walked through, that was hers?” Arthur asks, trying for gentle. He watches Eames across from him, how he toys with his fingers.

“And mine, for many years. The priest knew us and was fine enough but she was the problem.”

“What about your father?”

Another shrug. “Never knew him.” He says it so easily. Like it doesn’t hurt. Maybe it didn’t.

“How was London?”

“Profligate incarnate. Decadent. Dirty. Too many people towards the end. I don’t mind city life but I think I’ll stay at the coast a fair bit of years. Keeps me clean, seeing the ocean. It’s difficult to explain.”

“I get it.”

Eames watches him for a long time. Arthur feels his face heat. He’s acutely aware they’re going to be late for class. “Your smoking? Nasty habit, that.” He says it too carefully, and Arthur suspects it’s not what he originally meant to say.

“I know I shouldn’t do it but it keeps my nerves at bay.”

Eames hums. “Maybe you’ll like the beach then, too.”

Arthur tilts his head. “Maybe. We have to get to class, and I’m assuming you haven’t told me everything there is to know about the great Mr. Eames?”

The wolfish grin that splits Eames face induces tingles along the length of Arthur’s spine. “Barely even scratched the surface, Arthur.”

He likes the way Eames says his name. And that’s something he’s not used to either.

“Come on, let’s get to class.”

\--

The walk to class is short, like it’s been on any other day. Only this time Arthur is less keen to reach for a smoke, and he’s not entirely bothered he’s out at the moment besides. His hands are still in his pockets, and Eames is walking at an easy gate beside him.

“Thank you for letting me in, this morning,” Eames says suddenly. He’s looking straight ahead.

“Thanks for breakfast. You’ll have to show me a _kippuh_ next time,” Arthur says flippantly.

Eames shoves him lightly, his gaze playful. “You’re a downright scoundrel, Arthur.”

“You’re a downright scoundrel, _Ahthuh_ ,” he mocks and Eames’ face twists. Arthur thinks he’s gone too far, but then Eames is dragging him close and has a hand wildly messing his carefully combed hair.

“Now it’ll curl, thanks for that,” he grumbles trying to fix it.

“You sound like a kid,” comes his rolling reply, but he’s still smiling.

“You’re only a year older than me but we still technically are.”

Eames ducks his head. “Maybe not so much, you and I.”

Arthur has no idea what he means by that. He doesn’t ask.

Classes pass slowly. All through first, Arthur is keenly aware of Eames behind him. He can’t stop thinking about all that he told him over breakfast, so much so he hardly hears a thing their teacher is saying.

They have some things in common. Arthur can’t deny that. He debates what telling Eames what led him to Hastings in the first place will do. Will mean. He doesn’t know how Eames will react. But he’s tired of unloading it all onto Ariadne all the time. She doesn’t deserve random drop-ins at dawn. And she was right, he has to admit. He’s tired of feeling like shit all the time.

He just doesn’t know what Eames will _do_.

Eames is swamped by friends all through break so Arthur spends it sitting in his seat, and eavesdropping despite his best efforts not to. Which are really actually not that great in the first place because he’s curious how Eames is around people who aren’t Arthur. He sits sideways in his seat and pretends to be enveloped in the handouts they’d received in class.

The dark-haired one ducks his head and jabs his finger on Eames’ desk, next to where he’s leaning on the edge. “My father wants me to lose my _accent_. Says it’ll be smart for bringing in American business. We’re— _he’s_ primarily British, he knows that.” He’s Irish.

Eames laughs darkly. “And his own isn’t in the equation I bet?”

“No. It’s not,” the boy sighs, then deepens his voice to a husky rasp. “Robert, you’ve gone too long to that school of yours. Hasten to Whitby, I’ll tell my boys to train you on as a deckhand, you can work your way up to Dover, and from there, Portsmouth with me.” He adjusts his jumper. “Completely ridiculous,” he finally says in his own voice.

“You sound just like him,” another boy says, laughing.

“I can’t believe he wants me to drop out of school. It isn’t the turn of the century. We’re not huddled together in factories fighting to afford food anymore.”

“Depends on who you ask, really,” Eames tells him.

Robert slaps his arm. “Funny guy, this one.”

Robert chooses that moment to stand fully and Arthur accidentally meets Eames’ eyes. He’s been caught.

Eames’ lips quirk into a semblance of a smile, his eyes soft.

Robert continues, oblivious. “I’m not doing it. He can swallow his own damn tongue for all I care. Really unbelievable…”

Arthur turns his attention back on his papers, listening to Robert rant until it’s time for class to begin again. When they’re back in their seats, and the teacher is full gear into lecturing once again, he feels a tap on his shoulder.

It’s a folded piece of paper, a stiff triangle that takes a moment to unfold fully.

_Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns_

_The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds_  
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes  
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;  
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.  
~More Tennyson. :)

Arthur folds it back up carefully, a lump in his throat. He’s never really been one for poetry, but then Eames is different. He grabs his pen up and scribbles quickly on a spare page.

He tosses it back to Eames and is rewarded when he hears a surprised squawk from behind him. Then a crinkle of paper and a sharp, loud, boisterous laugh fills the room. Arthur’s grinning down at his notes.

Eames is berated by the teacher for a solid ten minutes but when Arthur chances a look behind him, Eames is trying very hard to remain serious, going so far as to bite his lip and scowl.

After things quiet down, Eames leans close enough Arthur can feel hot breath on his neck. He shivers.

“You are a brilliant prat, I hope you know that.”

“Like my attempt at poetry? Think I’ll try for a career in it,” he whispers back.

Eames huffs and flicks the back of his head before settling back in his seat.

Arthur can’t help but smile the rest of the class, his face hurting for it.

\--

The rest of the day passes smoothly. Lunch goes quickly. Ariadne hugs Arthur as soon as she sees him and gives him a nudge in the ribs when she sees Eames trailing behind him. She gives Eames a hug too and they all eat together. Eames prattles on easily about architecture, indulging each and every one of Ariadne’s questions. He gives her the contact info of a boy named Yusuf who can help her prep a portfolio to get in the class next term. Arthur thinks she’s in love.

After class ends for the day, Eames is there again. He just effortlessly is. And Arthur still can’t wrap how strange the last twenty-four hours have been.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard.”

Arthur shrugs. “I’m mentally writing more poetry.”

“That little attempt is going on my fridge, so you know.” When Arthur shakes his head, Eames says, “You’re going to eat crow, just wait.” He clicks his tongue and they keep walking.

“You live alone?” Arthur asks after a while, not thinking.

 _Now who’s the one without tact_ , he thinks to himself.

“Yeah, just short of ten minutes that way,” he says easily, pointing up a hilly street.

“Me too.”

“I gathered. Still no word from your cousin?” Eames asks, his tone airy.

“None. I expect him back in another week if the weather stays the same.” He watches a group of students some distance ahead, chatting happily amongst each other. Hardly anyone drives in Hastings, compared to what he’s used to in the states. “I keep an eye on Naval reports.”

“It’ll be quick.” Then, after a beat, “I can’t believe I haven’t even asked yet, where did you move from?”

Arthur licks his teeth. “Colorado. Ariadne is from there too, originally.”

Eames nods appreciatively. “I hear there’s many rocks there.”

Arthur huffs a laugh. “Some, I suppose. It’s alright. I wouldn’t go back though.”

He’s said too much. Already he feels his neck grow warm, his heart thump uncomfortably.

“Why not?” Eames asks him, because that’s what normal people do.

And Arthur stops walking. He closes his eyes and listens to his heart beat, feels it begin to pick up, feels sweat start under his arms. His fingers hurt from where he’s gripping his bag. And Eames has stopped too, he’s probably confused, probably bewildered. Probably thinking to himself, _what the fuck is he doing?_

But Arthur forces himself to open his eyes and meet Eames’. Because Eames has been kind to him. Eames, who’s tossed little excerpts from poems at him. Eames, who said he’s going to cook a real English breakfast for him.

Eames, who’s looking at Arthur like he realizes he’s toed into the deep end of something larger than the two of them. Something he might not want to hear. He looks worried.

Eames, who steps close and grabs Arthur’s hand, right there on the sidewalk, where anyone could see, and _squeezes_.

Arthur’s mind goes frightfully blank. He doesn’t know what he’s ever done to deserve Eames. They don’t even know each other’s full names. It’s not even been a week.

He draws in a shallow breath.

“Because, I killed my parents.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you to know if you're reading this, thank you.


	4. Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's rain, and two cars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Answers are here. You all left me some resonating and amusing comments last time, I'm anxious to know how this chapter goes over. Thank you. <3
> 
> I also make 8tracks playlists often. I have five A/E themed ones, and one specifically for this fic here: https://8tracks.com/mrhiddles/without-a-morning-eamesxathur  
> The others: https://8tracks.com/mrhiddles/mixes/1

It takes a moment for the words to really resonate with Eames.

Then, they do.

Eames makes this choked, half-hum-half-grunt towards him at the information and he just stares at Arthur. Stares at him so long, Arthur wants to run. Eames doesn’t let go. Grabs at his fingers even tighter.

“What are you on about?” he asks Arthur, words muted.

Arthur swallows hard. He feels a jolt of pain lance through his side and he’s not sure what to call it but stress. The sun blurs in a fuzzy halo around Eames’ head, casting their shadows long. Students are still shuffling out all around them, and some spare strange glances their way.

“I didn’t _actually_ kill them, you know. I just, I caused them to die. Same thing.” It comes out too fast and Eames lowers his gaze at the words.

“You don’t want to go back home right now, do you?” Eames asks him.

Arthur shakes his head weakly, his joints feeling tight. How did he know?

“Get at it, then, eh?” Eames says, voice so quiet Arthur struggles to hear it past the rushing in his ears. Arthur manages to turn his head, manages a nod.

No one else knows his secret except Ariadne and Dom.

And now, impossibly, Eames. Eames, who’s leading him up the colorful bricked pathway he gestured towards when he mentioned his own home. Eames, who doesn’t let go of his hand until they reach his door, and takes a moment too long to fumble for keys he likely knew too well to fumble with in the first place. Eames, who braces a hand on the door before shoving it open. Eames, who sits Arthur opposite him on his tattered single couch.

Eames, who watches Arthur sink slightly upon sitting and demands, voice hoarse, “Tell me everything.”

\--

_Arthur starts his day like he usually does, running. He goes for eight miles before it’s seven in the morning and when he returns, breathing hard and red in the face, his parents are only just getting themselves ready for the day. He takes a shower and runs through the mental notes he’d prepared for his speech that day in Economics._

_“Gonna be a good day?” his father calls from the kitchen._

_Arthur smells coffee, eggs and sausage. He can hear the fat crackling thick and bright in the old pan his father is surely using, worn and nearly rusted at the edges. He steps quickly on the hardwood flooring, sliding the last few feet to round the corner._

_“Hell yes, it is,” he calls back, automatic. When he passes his parents’ room on the way to shower, his mother is there, arm already out to ruffle his hair as he passes._

_“You look better with curls anyway.” She smiles and Arthur grins back. She sips at her coffee and mouths, “Love you.”_

_Just another day, he thinks._

\--

“Because why wouldn’t it be?” he mutters, watching Eames’ closely.

Eames is sitting forward, barely on the couch at all, staring at Arthur so intensely he has trouble focusing on recollecting every relevant piece of information. His hands are clasped tight, knuckles pale. Arthur focuses on those instead. He doesn’t know what Eames is thinking. His expression is drawn tight, hard.

“They had an event that night. My mother was a painter, and had a showing at a gallery a few hours away. I had practice that night and couldn’t go, but I realized shortly after going to class I’d overrun my ankle that morning. It was sore and swollen. I mean, who does that? Run extra miles to prep for the prep for the meet? It was minor but enough to keep me out for the next few days. I was free for the night.”

He licks his lips and closes his eyes.

“Keep going,” comes Eames’ voice, sharp in the silence.

\--

_His mother wore her dark hair up in a twist with an opal clasp, her cream dress hanging too far past her ankles so that she had trouble walking to their car._

_“It’s just for tonight, this silly train,” she tells his father. Their kiss is short, and Arthur watches from the backseat of their Volkswagen as they chat idly. He rubs his ankle, fingers firm through the material of his slacks._

_“Sure you don’t need ice?” his father asks him, opening the door._

_“Don’t worry about me.”_

_His father shoots him a look but Arthur doesn’t respond. He’s tired and his teammates have been texting him from their gym locker room, sending videos and singsonging at him, reminding him how he’d fucked up this morning._

_His father dressed down for these things, preferring to blend into the background while his wife glow in the over-bright fluorescent lighting. If anyone asked what the husband did, he’d say freelance. Really, he’d been out of work for more than a year._

_Arthur always dresses up, wanting to support his mother. But tonight, he just wants to run._

\--

“I’d likely ruined my chances for the last meets, and I wasn’t exactly considering my parents and the event.”

“Hm.” Another strange hum. He was still staring at Arthur. Had he even blinked?

Arthur runs a hand through his hair.

\--

_The drive is long, longer than it should be. But Arthur knows it’s because of the looming silence. His knee jitters and his ankle feels worse with every passing minute._

_His mother looks back at him. “Going to cheer for your Mother tonight, or will you be too busy being pissed off?”_

_“I’m injured, not pissed off.”_

_His mother raises an eyebrow. “Sure, you’re not. I know you, you’re my kid. You’re pissed.”_

_“What if I am?”_

_She turns more fully in her seat to meet eyes with him. Arthur stares past the bridge of her nose._

_“You’ll heal, you know.”_

_“Not in time!”_

_“Come on, Art.” his father tries._

_“Just don’t think about it tonight, okay? We’ll have a lovely night out and you can help me sell some pieces…”_

_His father laughs lightly. “Yeah you can be our sidekick for the night. Help us sell out…”_

_Arthur pushes too hard on his injured ankle, feels pain flare up through his calf and tears prick the corners of his eyes. He feels pathetic._

_“I’m not your goddamn sidekick! I’m injured and I only have two years left, I’ll be taken off the team if this is as bad as it feels.”_

_“They won’t take you off the entire team for one injury,” his father huffs._

_He grips his ankle harder, feels it throb painfully._

_“It’s raining. I bet practice was cancelled anyway.” His father is watching him from the rearview mirror._

_When he looks out the opposite window, he can see that it_ is _raining, but little else. It’s getting dark._

_“Let’s change the subject,” his mother chimes. She’s staring at him but he refuses to look her way. His father is quiet, and he has his suspicions. “I found something today, before you came home from your run.”_

_Arthur keeps staring straight ahead. Like hell he’ll meet her gaze now._

_“Want to talk about it?”_

\--

“Social media is shit.”

Eames nods, confusion passing through his face.

“I never take my phone on runs. It’s needless weight. I guess she went into my room for something and saw a notification. I don’t even really know.”

Eames finally breaks his posture. He straightens his back and runs a hand over his face. He looks pained. Arthur wonders why he keeps talking.

He never told the others like this.

\--

 _“You know we don’t care about that stuff,”_ _she says, voice gentle._

_Arthur finally meets her eyes. She smiles at him and he’s thankful in that moment she’s his mother._

_His father is still staring straight ahead. He’s silent._

_“It’s—it’s nothing serious. I don’t really—” Arthur tries._

_“Could have been drugs.”_

_His father’s voice is stale, toneless, and Arthur feels something fall in him. He feels sick._

_“What?” he asks him._

_“Would have preferred it’d been drugs she found,” his father tells him. His knuckles shift tight on the steering wheel._

_It’s raining harder. A steady thrum on the windshield, the windows, all around them._

_He feels sick. He feels fucking furious._

_“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”_

_His mother touches his father’s arm, but he jerks his arm up, pointing at Arthur in the rearview._

_“Why not Ariadne? She’s a lovely girl.”_

_“She moved to Europe two years ago, Dad.”_

_“And that gives you permission to take dick?”_

_There it was._  
\--

“Once he got angry, there was nothing stopping it. You had to sit and take it or leave to get him to stop. And I couldn’t run out of a moving car.”

“He sounds like a bastard.”

Arthur’s laugh sounds forced. “He could be.”

Eames drapes an arm over the back of the sofa. He’s letting Arthur have plenty of space, but Arthur wants to feel his hand over his again. In that moment, it was more than ridiculous. But he’s seeing how Eames breathes, how his brows draw tense in the middle as he listens. How he moves his knees sporadically back and forth, knocking each other sometimes before readjusting in his seat again.

“Did he ever hit you or your mom?”

“Once. I was small. I don’t know if there were other times.”

Eames keeps watching him, through him. His bottom lip juts between his teeth and he purses both lips.

“Yes, you do.”

He doesn’t know how Eames is so good at looking through people.

“I dream about it. I don’t know if they’re memories or not. He was okay most of the time.”

Eames nods. Doesn’t look like he believes that entirely. “Keep going.”

\--

_“A kid was stabbed in my town for being gay, you think I want that for you?”_

_“That was decades ago. It’s better now. In certain areas.”_

_“No, it’s fucking not,” His father says, barreling over him. His voice raises. “You can’t be serious with this, this_ thing _. Your grandfather would belt you for finding that text. You’re lucky your mother found it before I did!”_

_“Garrett!” his mother said, shocked. “He’s your son!”_

_His father laughs, brackish. One hand still tight on the wheel, he rolls down his window, cold air rushing in and rain hitting hard, staining his rolled sleeve._

_Arthur feels water fleck his face, and he wants nothing more than to be far away. As far away from his father as he can be. He wants to take his mother with him, leave this car, this rainy highway._

_He unbuckles his seatbelt and it happens so fast after that._

\--

“I keep having dreams about it. About how it happened.”

Eames doesn’t say a thing.

\--

_“You won’t harm him. Try to think past what your father would have done,” his mother shouts over the wind._

_“Maybe he had the right idea. Maureen, our son is_ not _a fagg—”_

 _“Just_ try _to say that word.” His mother is furious. “Pull over. You’re not driving like this.” She turns to Arthur, who’s just managed to move to the other side of the seat, his hands shaking too much to find the belt latch quickly. It’s too dark._

_She reaches for him._

_“We love you, Arthur._ I _love you. He’s not—”_

_Arthur is still fumbling with the belt when he’s ripped from his seat._

\--

“It was a truck. Guy was high and hit us nearly head on. The way his car collided with ours, I would’ve been crushed if I hadn’t changed sides. We rolled and I was forced out one window. My mother was flung through the windshield, and my father was pinned flat between the wheel and seat. I had a piece of steel sunk in my abdomen from rolling. The side of our car was just bits and pieces of hanging metal. The other driver died too.”

“You didn’t pass out?” Eames’ voice is thick.

He shakes his head, no. Eames moves, restless, then settles again.

“I still had my phone on me. When the ambulance came, it was barely raining at all. They told me I was covered in blood. It was all over my face.”

“Christ,” Eames breathes.

Arthur sees pain in Eames’ face, but not hatred. He sees anger and confusion, but…he’s not getting up and demanding Arthur to leave his home. He’s not pushing him out, like he should be. He’s just sitting there, watching Arthur relentlessly, and Arthur can’t take it anymore.

“That’s all. I lived, they died. Because they were arguing over me, and I didn’t back down. He didn’t see the other car and it’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault, Arthur.” When Arthur glares at him, he holds one hand up. “The conversation distracted them, yes, but it was your father’s irrational anger that caused the whole thing in the first place.”

“And it was the text I got that morning that made him angry at all. I caused it.”

Eames stands up. Arthur thinks he might start yelling but he doesn’t. “Bullshit. He had no right. There’s nothing to be angry about.”

Then Eames starts pacing. Arthur feels rooted, he can’t move. He feels stuck. “It’s been six months. She shouldn’t have died.”

Arthur knows Eames catches the implication in his words, but chooses to ignore it. Or overlook it. He stops and waves his hands in a half-formed thought.

“But it happened. Don’t bury yourself in someone else’s loathing. _He_ was the one who was wrong. _He’s_ the one that was in control of that car. Not you.” Eames’ voice wavers, just slightly.

“Why do you care so much?” Arthur finally asks him. Because he doesn’t understand. Not at all.

Eames shrugs, opens his mouth, then closes it again. He hums once, low. Then, he walks towards Arthur, drops to his knees in front of him on the floor, bouncing on his heels.

“Because, you’re _you_. You’re Arthur. You’re my friend. I’m not going to let you destroy yourself over this, over something that’s not on you. For God’s sake, mate,” he breathes out. “You must realize that.”

Arthur’s eyes ache and he wills himself not to cry, because _don’t fucking cry_. He shakes his head and Eames touches his knee, holds on tight.

“I know what it’s like to have family die in front of you, Arthur. I know. I know.”

Arthur let’s out a shaky breath.

“You were a kid,” Eames says, finding Arthur’s hands with his own. Cradles them in Arthur’s lap.

“It was six months ago.”

Eames shakes his head. His eyes are wet. “Doesn’t mean what I said isn’t true.”

And maybe, Arthur thinks, looking at Eames. Eames, on his floor, holding Arthur’s knee and looking like he’s about to cry for the both of them. Maybe, he was right.

\--

“You’re sleeping here tonight. I have extra blankets. Come on.”

Eames stands, his knees popping. Arthur is dragged along with him, his hands going free. He stuffs them in his pockets and follows Eames to a hall closet. He’s handed two woolen throws and a pillow. 

“Gets cold,” is all Eames tells him. He instructs Arthur to lay them on the couch.

They stand there, Arthur awkwardly holding Eames’ gaze. He nods once and Eames accepts it with a barely-there twist of his lips.

“I need a cigarette.”

Arthur smiles at that and Eames is staring at him again, at his mouth. Then Arthur remembers he hasn’t had a chance to buy any more.

“I’m fresh out.”

Eames sighs and it’s a rush of too much air. “For the best, right? Nasty habit, like I said.”

“Yeah.”

Eames looks at the ground, nods again, slow. Then he’s stepping into Arthur’s space and there’s a warm palm on his cheek. Eames’ thumb passes along the side of his mouth and Arthur’s halted breath doesn’t go unnoticed.

Eames stays there for a moment and then pats him lightly. “Let’s figure out dinner, yeah?”

Arthur swallows. “Yeah.”

\--

_There’s water. He gasps and water splashes back up at him._

_He’s bleeding. There’s blood on his second-best dress shirt. He’ll have to use bleach._

_Wait._

_Arthur groans, shouts long and guttural as he turns onto his side, onto his knees. He balances his head on the pavement beneath him, a puddle, looks down towards his hands and realizes there’s something jutting out of his stomach. No, no, not his stomach. It’s too far left to be the stomach. It’s warm and wet and he sees too much red, so he decides to save that for later._

_He stands and it hurts, it fucking hurts. But he stands. And then he falls. He stumbles and falls because he realizes he flew through the window of a car cascading along an empty and wet stretch of highway at eighty-seven miles an hour and he’s the only one making any noise._

_The Volkswagen’s collapsed to ruin, turned right side up again, some hundred feet away, a tire lying shredded in the dirt beside the road. The truck that—that hit them, its barely smashed but its engine is smoking._

_His mother._

_Arthur crawls. He smells the stench of—of_ something _and almost wretches._

_He moves as quickly as he can. Leaves a trail of spattered blood behind him. The hand holding his side is drenched, the other grizzled from clawing at the pavement as he moves. His knees hurt, his fucking ankle hurts worse. His head, his neck, everything. All of it._

_He only realizes he’s hyperventilating once he finally sees her. Her hips twist strangely, one leg is wrong. Her shoes were tossed somewhere he can’t see. Her dark hair is loose and matted around her face. He doesn’t want to see her face. Her mouth is open, and that’s when he shuts his eyes, rolls onto his back and wails at the sky. He’s soaked through from the rain. And he waits. He waits and he sobs and he shouts._

_Only when he relays what happened to the emergency operator that he realizes his father isn’t near them. He looks far ahead, at his family’s car._

_Arthur sees the front smashed in beyond recognition and he thinks,_ good _._

_When the EMTs arrive, he’s only just closed his eyes. He wants to sleep. Wants to wake up back in his bed, hair damp from his shower the night before. Wants to feel his mother’s hand mussing his hair. But he’s wide awake._

_“You poor kid, Jesus…” And Arthur shoves the EMT that’s trying to move him away, because aren’t they supposed to be professional? There’s two of them and they launch into questions. Arthur answers all of them. They get him on a stretcher and he doesn’t look anywhere but at the sky. They call for backup._

_“They’re dead,” he tells them._

_One of them wipes his face with a cloth, it comes away red. He doesn’t remember feeling his face cut open._ Not yours _, he thinks._ Not your blood.

_Arthur breathes, feels his side pulse languidly with every inhale, every exhale._

_He doesn’t know what else to do so he counts to ten, over and over and over again._


	5. Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long nights, picture frames, and cold flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlier update than usual! Arthur is just toeing that threshold, next chapter is a turn my friends.

It’s fifteen minutes past midnight when Arthur gets a text from Ariadne.

He already knows that it’s her because he’s been trying to type a message to her for a few minutes already.

_12:15AM         I can see that little ellipses when you type. What’s up?_

Arthur sends back a quick, _Ok_ , before realizing she’ll want more and it’s a pitiful attempt at complacency.

_12:18AM         I’m at Eames’ place._

That sounds even worse.

_12:21AM         I told Eames what happened with my family. He’s letting me stay the night. I don’t know why, though._

Arthur sighs, lets his phone fall to his lap as he lifts himself to sitting on Eames’ too-soft couch. It’s dark, darker than Dom’s flat gets. And it’s quiet. There’s no bar next door, and he knows Eames is sleeping down the hall. He never did get to see Eames’ room.

Another buzz.

_12:23AM         Because he’s a good friend._

Arthur frowns.

_12:23AM         It’s not even passed a week, Ariadne._

Her reply comes faster than he thought it would.

_12:24AM         So? The guy cares about you. I keep telling you you’re not hard to like. Do I need to rant about how you’re a dumbass again???_

Something strange turns Arthur’s stomach, and he sinks back down into the cushions again. _Stop it_ , he thinks.

_12:24AM         Arthur, maybe he just wants to help. Let him?_

There’s a creak of floorboards in the hall and Arthur nearly jumps up. But it’s just Eames going to the bathroom, because he hears the sink running a moment later. He hasn’t turned on a light, and Arthur hears a hard thud when he shuts the water off.

“Bloody fuck. Jesus,” comes Eames’ soft swearing. A long pause. “Bugger me,” he whispers, and then he’s walking towards the living room where Arthur is pretending to be asleep.

He stops some feet away, and doesn’t move. Arthur has a death grip on his phone, hoping Ariadne won’t send another message his way.

Arthur’s holding his breath, knowing it’s a failure of an attempt at feigning sleep. But Eames is just standing somewhere behind the couch, doing nothing, in total silence. Arthur wonders if he should just sit up and see what happens.

Finally, Arthur hears Eames draw in a deep breath. Hears him let it out. Then he makes a small hum and returns to his room. The door closes this time and Arthur swears at the ceiling, heart racing.

Ariadne hasn’t sent anything new. He doesn’t know what to answer her. He doesn’t know anything and he’s tired of feeling that way.

He falls asleep, her words stuck in his head.

Maybe Eames does just simply care.

\--

In the morning, Arthur wakes to the distinct crackling of animal fat in a pan. He sits up, joints creaking, and turns to see Eames in the kitchen, whizzing around with food in his arms.

“Whatever you’re making smells great,” Arthur calls over to him. Eames looks around the doorway and gives him a crooked smile. Arthur feels his ears heat.

Eames has already disappeared back to cooking. “That’s meats and kippers. I warned you I’d do you a proper English meal!”

“Can’t wait,” Arthur tells him mildly. He stands and stretches easily. The idea of running before breakfast hits him fairly hard, and it’s the first time in a long time he even considers it. He stares at his bare feet. He doesn’t have running shoes.

He ambles down the hall and finds the bathroom. Eames’ door is open at the end and with Eames busy in the kitchen Arthur feels brave. He steps silently, and peers around the frame into Eames’ room. It’s neat, with some clothes and a blanket on the ground by his bed. There’s a cluttered bookshelf along the farthest wall next to a desk. Arthur recognizes their textbooks split with colored notepaper.

But it’s the paintings on the walls that holds him where he is. There’s a lot, and Arthur only counts six before a noise from the kitchen stirs Arthur from his focus. Roiling waves, dark beaches, pitch laden skies, and a lighthouse.

\--

Arthur doesn’t want to risk food getting cold so he decides to hold off on showering until he’s home. He finds Eames still cooking the meat, nearly everything else done and plated. Eames looks to be in an old tank top and patterned shorts. Arthur stares, wondering where he even managed to find them.

“Did you sleep alright?” Eames asks him.

It catches Arthur off guard, his words stumbling out. “Y-yeah. Yeah, just fine. You?”

“Fitful, honestly.” Eames is watching him. Runs a hand over his short hair. “We should work on our project today.”

Arthur forgot it’s Saturday.

Arthur runs a hand through his own hair and doesn’t miss the way Eames tracks the movement.

“Maybe we can do a panorama…”

\--

Three weeks pass and Eames has managed to thoroughly entrench himself in almost every aspect of Arthur’s day-to-day. During class, Eames passes him two more poem snippets, by authors Arthur’s never read. He eats with him and Ariadne every lunch hour and makes Ariadne nearly choke on her food when he brings Yusuf by, the boy he said could help her with her portfolio.

Arthur stays over some nights during the week, and so far, every weekend. They work on their project together and it’s shaping up to be something resembling a good grade. Eames is hard working, and creative, more than Arthur can manage, and it eludes him how Eames can take something seemingly small and make it massive, radiant, a beacon.

It’s two days after that first night he slept over that Arthur finds out Dom won’t be returning as soon as he’d hoped. Naval reports indicate harder weather than anticipated. It rains in Hastings for the next week straight. The next week was wind and occasional hail.

It was Eames that suggested he stay most nights. Arthur finds it easier waking up to another person in the house, making noise, doing something, being there.

Arthur’s never realized how much he’s missed it.

\--

It’s raining again after three days of cool sunshine when Arthur makes his way back to Dom’s flat. He hasn’t been in a few days, and he feels almost guilty walking inside the empty, dark living room. It’s so cold, the sweater he wears isn’t enough to keep him from shivering. The place isn’t exactly unclean, but it needs work. He’s been neglecting the place.

Arthur bleaches the sink, washes down the counters that are only just beginning to collect dust. He takes a shower, and it’s too hot. The water pools at his feet and he doesn’t think of cars, or puddles, or blood on cement. He feels the scar along the left side of his abdomen and thinks, _Eames_. His skin feels stretched too tight when he towels himself off.

Keeping the lights off, he packs more clothes, does his laundry and eats something while he waits for it to finish. He goes into Dom’s room. It’s even colder in the unused space. The space is untouched since he last entered.

Arthur goes still when he sees the once downturned picture frame has somehow turned itself up on the nightstand.

Arthur beats an unsteady rhythm between his ring finger and thumb as he nears the small thing. Ribbed in carved oak, dark and dusty, important. There are two fingerprints at the top of it and Arthur feels ill.

Dom isn’t back yet. Won’t be for another week or two.

The woman in the photo has her face pressed into Dom’s neck. Her dark hair is long, whipping all around them in the wind, leaping just out frame. It looks like they’re at a dock, but not the ones here, in Hastings. Arthur has some idea who she is, and the way she’s smiling so wide it’s almost uncomfortable to look at. Dom is even younger than he is now, judging by the facial hair he wears.

Arthur throws his food away, grabs his half-dried clothes and leaves the flat. Locks it behind him like he always does.

It’s only once he’s outside again does he realize there’s an envelope in the mailbox. It’s addressed to neither he nor Dom, but rather to _The Residents; Cobb_. It’s not Arthur’s name, but he opens it anyway.

_Dearest,_

_I’ve decided to stay near you a while. I have written this in advance in the event you’re at the office. Should you return to find this letter waiting for you, know I’m here, in your heart._

It’s signed Mallorie.

\--

Eames shrugs when he sees it.

“Looks just fine. No wires, nothing funny about it. Wording’s a little obscure though.” Eames raises his eyebrows and hands the letter back.

“She was in Dom’s room, Eames,” Arthur says.

Eames gives him a look. “Sounds like she’s been in more than just his room don’t you think?” Arthur smacks his arm while he laughs. “Listen, was anything missing?” he asks, serious.

“Nothing I could tell. She just turned their picture up.” Arthur buries his hands in his hair. It’s getting too long and it tickles his face.

Eames thumbs his chin. “Maybe he turned it down for good reason?”

Arthur just nods, feeling sick to his stomach. Eames doesn’t know Mallorie like Arthur does. A hurricane of a woman, edged in heady ideas and sharp words, her soft gaze made to melt hard hearts like molten gold, eviscerating and bright. Gorgeous and devastating. Gentle and inevitable.

Arthur breathes in deep.

Eames notices. “Want to head out to the woods?”

Arthur doesn’t have to answer verbally for Eames to know he’s said yes.

\--

The woods are layered in fog when they arrive. The ground is wetter than when Eames first brought Arthur here. This time he welcomes the soft squelch of mud beneath his shoes, the slow sinking feeling of being drawn down into the earth, the dirt, the flowers only just closing up for Winter. He watches every step Eames takes.

Eames touches the trunks of trees with reverence and Arthur feels the skin of his neck tingle.

Eames takes him farther than before. They stop at a narrower part of the same stream that’s barely trickling along, fighting against thickly gathered pebbles and large stones, littered with leaves and twigs. Arthur sits on his jacket, doesn’t care that it’ll be a filthy mess he’ll have to press the stains out of later.

“It’s still beautiful.”

Eames is watching him. Like he always is, lately. “Yes, it is.”

They stay there for some time. Eventually, Eames lies down citing a bad back and Arthur joins him. His hands are crossed on his stomach while Eames’ are behind his head. Eames’ grey eyes are shut and Arthur looks away before he’s caught staring.

Maybe it’s the space they’re in, maybe it’s because Eames has brought him here before. Maybe it’s the fact Arthur’s been saying good night to the person lying beside him for nearly the last month straight. But it makes his tongue feel loose. He’s relaxed here, and he’s not counting in his head.

“I feel numb a lot. And sick. And like everything is too difficult all the time.”

Eames replies without opening his eyes. “And why is that?”

Arthur taps his index fingers on his sternum. “I don’t know.”

“Sure you do,” Eames says simply.

“I don’t know,” he repeats, voice hollow. “I’m tired of not knowing all the time too.”

“Grief does that, Arthur. It makes you feel numb and sick and like you’re falling and you have no idea what the hell is going on half the time. It’s normal, really.”

They don’t talk for a time. Arthur listens to Eames’ steady breathing and wonders if he’s actually fallen asleep.

“I wanted him to die,” Arthur whispers. “I wanted it so often. And then it happened.” Eames’s breathing hasn’t changed so Arthur keeps going. “I didn’t want her to die. Never. She was my mother. She _is_ my mother. I hurt her, and the last conversation we had was an argument.”

Arthur is staring up at the trees above them, at the hazy grey sky above the trees. He wants to see the stars and the dark surrounding them. He thinks of the deep waves painted on Eames’ walls.

“I should have died with them.”

Eames’ breathing hitches and his hand finds Arthur’s, urgent and tight. When Arthur looks over, he sees Eames is looking at him, pained, his brows drawn close. It’s a look meant to startle him and Arthur feels it to his core. He feels tears slide over his cheeks and he doesn’t mind so much with Eames looking the way he is, right into Arthur, into his thoughts.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” is all Eames says.

\--

It’s a Tuesday and Eames invites him over that night during lunch, in front of Ariadne. She tries very hard to focus on eating her sandwich.

Yusuf sits beside her, his glasses slipping down his nose while he raves about Ariadne’s work. Says how talented she is, how solid her calculations are. Ariadne is torn between laughing at Arthur’s expense and lapping up all the praise Yusuf is showering her with.

Eames says something then, and Arthur misses it.

“Excuse me?”

“London.” Eames repeats, looking at Arthur like he’s just said something astounding. “This weekend with Robert and these two here? I figure it’ll be a nice getaway seeing as you’ve never been.”

Arthur blinks. “I thought you hated London?”

Eames leans back, shifting his fingers through the soft grass they’re sitting on. “I do like to visit now and again. Not like I’m up and moving back.”

Arthur doesn’t have to think long about it before he’s nodding and saying, “Let’s do it.”

Eames hollers and throws an arm around his shoulders, shaking him back and forth until he tumbles Arthur onto his back. Arthur wrestles with him a moment too long, he’s red in the face and huffing. Eames is laughing, nose pink and grin a cheshire’s envy. Arthur shoves Eames as they sit back up.

The look Ariadne throws him gives him a good excuse to turn the conversation towards her instead.

“So how long have you two been hanging out, Ari?” he asks her loudly, righting himself.

Ariadne rolls her eyes and becomes very interested in the work Yusuf has spread out for her. Yusuf adjusts his glasses, smiling soft and private.


	6. London Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all strive for that sugar baby life style that Robert thrives in.
> 
> I have a set number of chapters finally! It will be 10 chapters at most (!) and I'm aiming for a quicker completion date. I recently transferred colleges and majors and moved, so life has been busy again. I want this finished so I can move on to more fics!
> 
> I hope you are still enjoying it!

It’s dark and Arthur’s just opened his eyes. His dream was murky and filled with blue, and he just barely remembers the edge of a sea.

He stares at Eames’ ceiling and calms down. Thinks about the dinner they ate just a few hours before. Feels like he’s slept no time at all. Then he’s cold and when he pulls the blanket Eames’ gave him up around his shoulders, he hears a sound long and low.

He sits up on his elbows, immediately worried Eames has hurt himself. He holds his breath, waiting, heart thumping painfully. Then it happens again, and he feels his ears go hot.

Arthur waits, just to be sure and… _ohh_ …yeah, that’s exactly what he thinks it is.

He lies back down slowly, settling on the cushions. Eames is getting off in the bathroom and Arthur is listening in and he doesn’t try to go back to sleep, he doesn’t try to shut his ears and ignore the frankly loud sounds coming from down the hall. He realizes with the ache settling low in his stomach he doesn’t _want_ to. And maybe that’s what makes him shut his eyes, squeeze them tight, twist his fingers into the fabric.

He can’t hear anything else except for the soft moans, the little grunts of breath. Eames is trying to be quiet, but he isn’t very good at it and that makes Arthur imagine it. What it would be like to have Eames beside him, his hand down the waist of the jeans he likes to wear, hand working fast along what Arthur can’t see. Eames’ neck stretching back, his collarbone taut against his skin, Arthur’s tongue and teeth on his jaw—

He opens his eyes and stops thinking when he realizes he’s hard now too. He hasn’t done this in a while. Just hasn’t been in the mood, but it’s _Eames_ and Eames is his _friend_ and goddammit Eames is fucking gorgeous and he _wants—_

Eames says something more clearly. Something Arthur knows, but isn’t quite sure he heard right. Didn’t quite catch the whole thing.

Something that sounded suspiciously close to _thur_ and he can’t really compute that information. What it could be, what it could mean if he’s right. But then he hears the faucet running and a heavy sigh. Then a yawn, and Arthur wonders how late it is, or how early.

It’s only the second time Arthur’s caught Eames up in the middle of the night but this time, as Eames is walking back to his own bed he very clearly says, to no one, “Fool.”

\--

It’s a Friday afternoon when Yusuf surprises them all as he pulls up to Eames’ front door in an old VW, painted burnt orange with the stripes of the brush plainly visible. Robert leans out the opposite window waving at them as they pull up. The vehicle makes a harsh chug-and-clunk and comes to a rest and Arthur swears he can feel the diesel seeping into his pores.

“What is that thing? Thirty years old?” he manages with a hand over his mouth. When he glances sideways towards Eames, he’s mirroring him, but he can see the hint of a smile in those blue eyes.

“Might be,” Yusuf replies, proud. “Inherited from my aunt when she moved to New York. Painted it myself!”

“Looks like it,” Eames says under his breath, then, “How come I never knew you had a car, Yusuf? I thought we were friends!” His arm brushes Arthur’s as he jogs around to greet Robert and then it’s Arthur who’s the topic of conversation. “This here’s Arthur. Good lad,” he starts, falling into a jovial rambling with his friend.

Arthur manages to exchange a wave and a smile, but Robert is whisked away from him, a funny smile on his face, before he can say anything. It leaves him feeling odd, but then Yusuf is asking him where to pick up Ariadne and he doesn’t have time to think on it.

\--

Ariadne’s eyes go wide when they pull up in front of her home. Her shoes are covered in dirt from kicking at the rocks at her porch and her hair is in a messy braid. She’s wearing eyeliner, and a new scarf, and Arthur can barely hold himself back from saying something. It fills him with an airy feeling and it lingers long past Ari pouring into the middle of the modified front seat, so she can sit next to Yusuf. Robert throws them both a look from where he’s practically shoved out of the way and Eames shrugs. It’s obvious to everyone but Yusuf apparently. Arthur just bites his tongue.

Eames and Arthur are wedged together in the backseat some inches apart, forced to listen to soft rock over the radio while Ariadne and Yusuf prattle on about schoolwork. Robert has his headphones in and is swiping around on his phone. Eames has been watching out the window for nearly half an hour when he nudges Arthur with his knee.

Arthur looks over at him but Eames is still looking outside, watching the world pass. After a minute he turns back but then it happens again and this time, Eames’ knee stays. Stays there for ten, then fifteen, then thirty minutes. Arthur decidedly does not turn to look at Eames, but he suspects Eames can tell he wants to. Finally, after around an hour, Eames turns to him instead.

“Is this alright?” Eames asks, gentle.

Arthur looks down to where they touch, and then back up, meets his eyes and sees a storm in them and honestly, he doesn’t mind at all. Doesn’t think he ever could.

His heart is racing and he refuses to tap his fingers and count as he nods _yes_. Chooses instead to press back into Eames and watch the smile that curls its way onto his friend’s face.

The grey sky opens up to a drizzle and Arthur has a passing thought of where Dom might be, all the while very aware of the way Eames indolently presses his knee to his.

\--

What was supposed to be a two-hour drive turns into five hours with three stops along the way, so Robert can run off into the tall grasses and piss even though he’s not drank anything Arthur can see. He needs to stop too, but he has dignity enough to use a working toilet when he does.

They get to the hotel Eames reserved around midnight and everyone but Eames and Arthur seems to be exhausted. They get two beds and two extra cots, which Robert is quick to claim one. Arthur comes out of the bathroom to Yusuf already asleep in one bed with Ariadne and Robert likewise on their respective cots. Ariadne fell asleep with her phone in her hand and Arthur is contemplating removing it for her when he realizes there’s only one bed left, and Eames is settled quite comfortably on one side.

Arthur glares but Eames just looks sorry. “I tried to argue for your honor, but seems you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.”

Arthur steps quietly to go and take Ariadne’s phone to set it on the closest nightstand and then goes and grabs the small bag of clothes he brought along. Tries not to think about sharing a bed with Eames while he changes in the bathroom. Stares at himself in the mirror and decides he needs a haircut, and _why didn’t I get one before I came here?_

Prays to any god above he doesn’t really believe in to please not let him wake up hard and clinging to Eames, because really, he doesn’t need that. Not ever.

When he comes back out, hair haphazardly finger-combed and breath more minty than its likely ever been, it’s worse because Eames is under the covers and his shirt has disappeared. Maybe he’s in a horror film and he just doesn’t know it yet.

Eames is reading the hotel menu and doesn’t look up when Arthur carefully climbs under the duvet. Before he can help himself, he’s turned onto his usual side out of ritual and is facing Eames. Decides to read the menu himself to cover up the mistake.

He doesn’t know what Eames thinks of all this, and last night plays through his head on loop. He knows what Eames sounds like when he touches himself and now they’re sharing a bed and Arthur would have much preferred a third cot in the room.

Arthur is eyeing something chocolate when Eames shifts and lets out a _hm,_ scratching at his ribs. Something catches his eye on the other’s right bicep.

“You have a tattoo?”

Eames thumbs the next page and turns it. “Yes, I do.”

“Not helpful.”

Eames throws him a lopsided smile. “Got it too young. Tribute to mum, you know.” Eames bends to show him a faint leprechaun. He goes back to thumbing pages and settles on a page reserved for tarts. “You ever have a roly-poly, Arthur?”

Arthur blinks and says, “A what?”

Eames feathers through the last pages and then huffs, sliding the menu back on the nightstand. He shifts and lies down fully, facing Arthur.

“It’s a jam filled delight is what it is. I’m going to need to educate you on proper English baking too. You’re hopeless.”

“I’m used to apple pie and baseball, what can I say?” he says, flatly. Eames laughs and brings his knees up under the covers. Their legs brush and Arthur flinches.

Eames doesn’t miss it. “I can sleep on the floor if you want.”

“No!” Arthur tells him, too loud. They wait but no one seems to have woken up. “No, no, sorry, I just…I’m not used to this. To touching.”

Eames just looks sad then. “What do you mean?”

Arthur wonders if he should bother explaining but then remembers Ari’s text to him when this whole thing started. _Because he’s a good friend_.

He takes a steadying breath. “I just don’t really do it. I mean Ari and I will hug. My mom used to kind of touch my hair and that would be about it. I don’t mind it, really, I just need to get used to it. You surprised me.”

Eames is just watching him. His expression shifts to something more serious. He brings one hand up and Arthur knows he’s asking him permission for something. So he gives Eames his hand and Eames just holds it, brings his other to clasp it firmly. They’re lying side by side and Eames is holding his hand and it makes his stomach drop, his nerves tingle. Arthur wants to run, escape the awkward fluttering of whatever it is his heart is doing, wants to wipe his eyes because they’re watering, and he doesn’t even know why.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispers.

“Whatever for?”

“Your mom. For what happened. I’m sorry you had—”

Eames’ lips quirk up. “It was a long time ago,” he tells him, and Arthur thinks, _no it wasn’t_. “But thank you, darling.”

Worry flashes through him for a moment, maybe he overstepped, maybe he went too far and now Eames is pissed and just hides it well. The longer he holds Eames’ stare, the worry dissipates. Leaves just the two of them watching each other, not awkward, but comfortable. Eames moves their hands to the edge of the covers, and they go to sleep.

\--

Arthur wakes up first, and it’s to the sight of Ariadne tiptoeing to grab her phone from the table. She grimaces when she sees he’s awake. Then her eyes slide tellingly to where he knows Eames still has his hand loosely held.

“Sorry,” she mouths. And he can tell she means it.

He blinks and shakes his head. Then comes the distinct groan of someone waking up and then it’s Robert’s voice cutting through the morning quiet.

“Bloody wh—it’s fucking bright. Who forgot to close the drapes?” He sniffs and sits up and Ariadne moves more fully in front of Arthur.

Arthur turns over and jostles Eames slightly. Then it’s Eames huffing awake, squeezing Arthur’s hand while he stretches.

The look on his face when he sees Arthur is something he won’t forget. Pillow-reddened cheek, sleepy eyes, and shirtless, one thigh pressed close enough to Arthur’s beneath the duvet he can feel the full body stretch.

Eames is still holding his hand when Robert passes them all, eagerly on his way to the bathroom. The door shutting is what finally wakes Yusuf.

Ariadne skitters around to her cot and gathers up her sweater, hastily pulling it over her head before Yusuf can see her in a shirt without her bra.

“We can still tell, dove,” Eames tells her glibly, grinning easily. She tosses her pillow at them and it manages to hit Arthur in the back of the head. Eames just laughs and laughs.

“What did I miss?” Yusuf yawns.

“Eames is an ass, that’s what.”

“Oh, I’ve known that for years!” Yusuf croons.

This time it’s Eames who throws the pillow and luckily for Arthur, it’s smooth sailing.

\--

It’s just past ten when they all manage to drag themselves out of the hotel and shuttle into the city proper. It’s all wet brick and concrete with the occasional tree, and covered in people. It reminds Arthur vaguely of the pictures he’s seen of New York, or even San Francisco. But the roads are wider, there’s more turnabouts, and people are only slightly less inclined to scream at you for crossing the street. They’re in Mayfair on Robert’s suggestion and it’s Arthur who’s the one that’s out of the loop. Ariadne just groans and Yusuf echoes her.

“Dipping in Daddy’s wallet again, Rob?” Eames chimes from beside Arthur. He’s standing close and Robert eyes the two of them before answering.

“You’re damn right. Bastard owes me more than the overhead on each shop combined here. And—”

“More.” Eames and Yusuf say in unison, finishing Robert’s sentence in what seems well practiced and worn out.

“Exactly. I’ll get us lunch, so quit you’re panic,” Robert hums.

Arthur learns the reason for everyone’s distaste when he sees the prices in the first shop they enter. It seems to be a general tourist spot and he wonders if they’re doing this because he’s from America. Clearly Ariadne knows her way around because she drags Yusuf off to look at the gloves.

His palms sweat as he fingers a quadruple digit price tag for a single men’s jacket.

“Jesus Christ.”

“If you ask nicely, Robert will gladly use dear old dad’s credit card to not-so-nonchalantly purchase anything you want.” Eames comes around behind him and Arthur just shakes his head.

“That’s just wrong.”

“Poor sod’s never known anything else. Look at him.”

They watch as Robert ladles clothes into a handcart, a frown on his face the entire time.

“I mean, he doesn’t even look like he’s enjoying doing it.”

Eames grunts. “You should see him when he’s actually upset. That’s him happy. I think.”

Arthur laughs and doesn’t miss the way Eames leans into him for a moment, biting his lip.

“You know I’m used to doing pennies at the market just for some bread, but Robert’s another creature entirely. He probably has ten thousand quid in that basket and he’s not even counting.”

“Why bring us here, then?”

“Well, this is _my_ trip, but I let Robert gallivant where he likes for the first few hours. It keeps him…mellow.”

Arthur follows Eames as they move on to look at the prices of some umbrellas. Two hundred for one umbrella and he wonders how well it actually works. “Do you two come to London often?” he asks, fighting down a ridiculous flash of jealousy. Eames isn’t _his_. Especially not because they held hands. In bed. All night. He stops that train of thought immediately.

“His dad stresses him out so much, I usually suggest shopping in the city and it makes him feel better. I’ve known him since we were little.” It’s almost an afterthought, the way he adds the last bit. “His girlfriends can’t handle it, I think.”

“Handle him spending money?” Arthur blurts out, incredulous.

Eames shrugs. “If I pulled out a thousand pounds to buy you a hanky, what would you do with that? It’s batty, ‘s what it is.”

“I guess I’d be freaked out a little.” Eames stares him down. “Okay, a lot.” He doesn’t miss the way Eames went from ‘girlfriend’ to him buying something for Arthur.

“I can’t remember the last time I went shopping. Maybe back in the states, with Ari?” He honestly can’t land on a point in time he actually stood in a shop and bought something because he wanted it, rather than needed it.

“How long ago was that?”

“Six—no seven years. Yeah. Seven years, something like that.” He doesn't tell him it was at the candy shop in the mall by his and Ariandne's houses, and her parents dropped them off. Eames makes a face while Arthur just keeps flipping through expensive items he finds completely and utterly useless. Who needs a t-shirt the equivalent of five thousand dollars?

“What, Eames?”

“You’ll find something in one of the shops around here. I do plan on visiting useful spots this weekend. We’ll find a pub and have a sit-down and plan out some doable shops here and there.”

It’s then that Arthur realizes something, argues with himself over telling, and then decides that Eames knows enough about him to not be embarrassed by him.

“My birthday is tomorrow.”

Eames’ hand clenches violently in the sweater he’s on, tossing it aside on the rack like it hurt him.

“You’re playing,” he breathes.

“I forgot,” Arthur sighs. He really did.

Eames’ mouth opens and closes again, and his brows draw up. He looks lost when he makes that face but Arthur finds it charming, and just shrugs as an explanation.

Eames knows without him having to say anything. It’s been a long year.

Then something seems to dawn on him. “Wait, how old will you be?”

“Eighteen,” he tells him.

Eames grin then is suspicious. Arthur narrows his eyes at him. “You’ll be able to hit the pub with us, then!”

“You weren’t intending on inviting me a few minutes ago?”

Eames holds his hands up. “I was operating under the assumption you were legal, but here we are, a happy surprise upon us! We’ll celebrate right, just wait.” He grins and catches Arthur’s wrist for a tight squeeze, then he’s off to find the others.

Arthur just looks down at his shoes. Wonders how he got himself into this situation.

When he looks up, he sees Eames gesturing wildly in front of the others. Robert is trying his hardest to hold everything he’s grabbed off shelves, but he’s waving to Arthur like he’s all for it. Yusuf is writing something down on a notepad he got from…somewhere, and Ariadne looks absolutely ecstatic.

Arthur thinks it’s maybe a good thing after all, moving to Hastings.

Eames casts a glance back over his shoulder at him and at his wide grin, Arthur decides that it is. A very good thing.


End file.
